


Ice Cream, Peaches, and Pie

by vivalamusaine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Living Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24964723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivalamusaine/pseuds/vivalamusaine
Summary: This is a gift for Thelawsofdaylight on tumblr for their contribution at TheBishopMyrielFundraiser.A peek into Joly, bossuet, and Musichetta’s kitchen, while they’re happy and in love.  People would always ask them, "how do you make it work?" But for Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta it never felt like work.
Relationships: Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	Ice Cream, Peaches, and Pie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quillsand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillsand/gifts).



> Thank you to quillsand (thelawsofdaylight) so much for this prompt. It was a lot of fun to write something with no angst for a change!

People would always ask them, "how do you make it work?" But for Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta it never felt like work. 

Every day they were together felt like a lazy Sunday morning. Where the early morning light came through the window pane and hit Musichetta's frazzled bed hair. Joly would grumble about it being too bright, and Bossuet would rise with sleep still in his eyes to pull them shut, and ask the half-asleep room whose turn had it been to close them the night before. The only answer he'd receive would be half hearted apologies and an arm pulling him back into the comforts of their large King bed. Perhaps it was the curse that once they had retired together in a pile so warm and tight that it was almost impossible to escape it to close the curtains, but somehow someone always forgot to.

It was no secret that they shared everything, secrets told to one were assumed to be told to all, clothes in their closet no longer had one owner but three, even when they weren’t together you could see a touch of Musichetta in Joly’s mannerisms, stolen pieces of Bossuet’s humour in Musichetta’s jokes and Joly’s habit of nicknaming inanimate objects in Bossuet. 

Often they needed no words to speak, Musichetta would make eye contact with Joly, Joly would nod and turn to Bossuet, Bossuet would grin so wide you'd swear he'd won the lottery; and in a way he had. He had two partners that understood him better than he did himself, it was enough to make worries over the little things seem insignificant. 

Coming home and knowing that his two favourite people would already be there was one of things Joly always looked forward to. But coming home to see Bossuet sitting on the kitchen countertop in the middle of laughing at his own joke, and Musichetta holding back a giggle and chastising his pun as she tapped him on the arm with her rolling pin was a sight he would tuck away into his memories and treasure in nostalgic times. He took advantage of the stolen moment, standing in the doorway and watching them before they could notice his arrival. To observe them together, happy and candid, was a gift wrapped in fondness and adoration.  
  
As quickly as it came it was gone, for Bossuet’s eyes lit up upon seeing his boyfriend arrive home. 

“We’re baking!” He declared with a wide grin and an excited wave, his hand coated in a mess of sticky wet flour.

“I can see that.” Joly chuckled as he crossed his arms in mock annoyance and raised an eyebrow at the sink full of dishes waiting to be cleaned.

“Do not fret Mon chéri.” Musichetta cooed bouncing towards him and planting a quick peck on his cheek. “We saved the best part for you.”

“The cleaning?” Joly asked her, she kissed him once more and booped his nose, leaving a small patch of flour on the tip. 

“The taste test!” Bossuet beamed.

Joly rubbed his nose and looked around the chaos in the kitchen, an old cookbook Jehan had lent them three years ago - that they always somehow forgot to give back - sat open on a dog eared page about pie crust. Peach slices in syrup were bubbling on the stovetop, and looked in danger of staining their best pot. They had somehow utilized a total of three mixing bowls for one dish. He dreaded to think of the discarded attempts of dough sitting in their garbage bin.

“Between the two of you, nobody remembered to preheat the oven?” Joly said, leaning against the countertop as Bossuet jumped down from it.

Musichetta cursed as she frantically squatted down to turn the knob. Absentmindedly running a hand through her curls, and standing in a hurry to set a timer and stir the angry bubble of peaches. 

“What would we do without you?” Bossuet placed a soft kiss on his forehead.

“Have cold pie, probably.” Joly shrugged.

The chaos seemed less present in Joly’s company, he had a way of reigning the other two in slightly. Their voices spoke softer, their actions less frantic, it was as though his mere presence was a drop of tranquility in their ocean of disarray. 

As Bossuet began to rinse the pile of dishes that were waiting for them, Joly caught them up on his day and Musichetta watched them with a fond expression. 

“So what brought about this great hawks nest bake off?” Joly asked with a yawn and a stretch. 

“Well it started out very innocently, as all of our ventures do.” Musichetta beamed. “I was helping Bossuet in his job hunt.”

“Thinking of becoming a baker?” Joly asked him with a raised eyebrow, Bossuet laughed loudly.

“Are you kidding me? I almost lost two fingers cutting pastry today, I wouldn’t survive a day in a professional kitchen with so many knives around and mean british chefs.”

“I don’t think Gordon Ramsey is hiring anyway, darling.” Musichetta said as she poured the contents of the pot into the pie crust that was waiting on the countertop. “He found a job listing for a spanish translator.”

“You don’t speak spanish.” Joly chuckled. 

“Si. However the job wouldn’t start for another two months, so we were debating how much spanish I could learn in that time, and if it would be enough for me to fool a board of directors in Nice for long enough to get at least one paycheque.”

Joly exchanged a knowing look with Musichetta as she shook her head and mouthed “no” to him, he contained the urge to giggle and cleared his throat.

“So you were trying to bribe them with delicious sweet treats that would null their senses enough to not notice you were speaking broken english and french?”

“Not exactly, but now that you mention it…”

“No bribing people that aren’t Bahorel! that’s one of the house rules.” 

Musichetta pointed a finger to the wall at the end of the hallway. In their living room was the wall that Grantaire had painted black when he had lived here with Joly. A project he had never finished, long ago, before they had figured out what they had all wanted from each other. In a way, they had always known, but naivety and fear had held them back for a long time, and there were only hidden feelings amongst good friends. When he moved out, he left what he called “the opposite of a house warming gift.” in the form of a bucket of chalk, and they had turned the black wall into a colourful list of inside jokes and fake rules, and drunk messages from house parties that lasted much too long and made their neighbours shoot them dirty looks in the hallway. 

Bossuet sighed, putting a cutting board in the drying rack and removing his gloves with a dramatic flair, as though he were a pining dame in an Austen novel. 

“We only put that exception there after Jehan gave us a brownie to do so! Technically we broke the rule by putting it up!” 

“So… Pies?” Joly prompted them quickly, Musichetta had opened her mouth to retort and he was hoping to get them back on track before the conversation completely derailed as they so often did.

“Right. Pies.” Musichetta said, thinking for a moment as she carefully placed lattices of pre-cut pastry across the top. “He was on that stupid owl app for three hours trying to learn enough basics to switch his resume to spanish and it kept interrupting my work so I just gave up for the day and told him I’d quiz him.”

“And the pie is a reward for doing a good job?” Joly asked hopefully, only to be met with two sullen head shakes. 

“I messed up _pan de molde_.”

“Bread?” Joly asked furrowing his brow.

“Does everybody except me speak spanish in this household?” Bossuet exclaimed exasperatedly, Joly raised his hands defensively.

“Hey -I just connected the dots, Pain, pan, they’re very similar.”

“See this is why you have a PHD and I don’t.” Bossuet huffed with an annoyed smile. “Anyway, I told Chetta that it’s not like they’re going to ask me to bake pan de molde for them in the interview-”

“-And I told him you never know, the job market is very strange these days.”

“Yes but it’s incredibly unlikely that Paul Hollywood is going to jump out and demand I bake him a blueberry pie in fluent spanish.”

“And I said, not blueberry no, but you should be prepared for melocotón pie.”

“And _I_ said, what’s melocotón?”

“Which is when I pointed out that if he doesn’t know the spanish word for peaches, there was no hope for him in the spanish speaking professional job market.”

“And I thought, thank God, because I’ve forgotten how to even say the word “job” at this point.”

“Trabajo.” Musichetta cooed in a teasing tone. Sprinkling a pinch of granulated sugar over the egg washed pastry. 

“Show off.” Bossuet scoffed. “We were pretty hungry at that point so we just decided to make a peach pie instead of arguing about one.”

“That would be the natural conclusion of things.” Joly laughed as the kitchen timer rang out and Musichetta crouched to place the pie in the oven.

“Joly dear, would you fetch the ice cream from the freezer in a few minutes? I want it to soften a little.”

“We’re all out.” Joly said without having to check. 

Courfeyrac had been over the night before when Musichetta had been at work, bemoaning over another boy that had broken his heart - a night that reminded him of their college days, watching bad romantic comedies and throwing popcorn at the love interests. But Joly now had the pleasure of turning off the television after Courfeyrac had been suitably hugged out and crawling into bed with Bossuet, twirling circles into the hairs on his arms as he slept like a rock beside him. The reminder of days filled with loneliness and comfort food made him reflect on just how grateful he was to have them in his life, and in that moment he had sent a silent thank you to the universe for allowing them to find a way into his heart.

“We can’t have pie without ice cream!” Musichetta cried as though in protest of a great injustice.

“I’ll go to the store.” Bossuet offered jumping off the countertop and taking a wayward spoon with him, clattering to the floor.

“By the time you get back the pie won’t be warm!” Musichetta sighed, leaning down with a cloth to clean the spot on the floor and picking up the fallen spoon. “It needs to be fresh, hot and served with ice cream!”

“Oh what an unmitigated disaster.” Bossuet cried dramatically, slapping his hand to his forehead and immediately regretting his actions as a glob of wet flour fell to the tiles below. Musichetta had almost beaten the fallen mess to the floor with her quick reflexes, and had wiped the tiles in no time. 

“Unless…” Joly muttered picking up the recipe book and flipping through the pages.

“Unless?” Bossuet and Musichetta asked him in sync, their eyes on him like he was an angel about to grace them with unearthly knowledge.

“We can make our own.” Joly held out a recipe he’d seen half a year before when perusing for inspiration for a pudding. “Five minute ice cream!’

Bossuet and Musichetta lauded him as though he’d found the holy grail, and he became lost within the plethora of kisses encompassing him. Despite the years of affection that he had become accustomed to, they still had a way of managing to leave him with warm cheeks and bashful eyes. 

* * *

The pie was a little undercooked on the bottom and a little overcooked on the top, it was messy and the last minute ice cream even more so. It hadn’t thickened properly, and had a consistency closer to condensed milk than a frozen delicacy. 

A look was shared between the three of them that needed no words to be spoken, They weren’t sure how good it would be, but they’d come this far, so why not try. Cautiously, and as promised, Joly administered the taste test, and despite all of its flaws and individual pieces that seemed to be so wrong, when it all came together it was divine. Warm and comforting, he gave them an approving noise and Musichetta and Bossuet’s eyes lit up with pride and excitement. 

They took their plates to the living room, on their large L-shaped couch underneath their chalk wall. Musichetta had a habit of humming in between bites, it was one of the first things Joly had ever noticed about her, what he hadn’t expected when they had all began to live with each other was Bossuet also picking up the habit, matching her tune with a tenor tone of his own. The harmonising hums were pleasant, and Joly almost instinctively rested his head on her shoulder, and relaxed his legs over Bossuet’s lap. Somehow they always ended up like this - in a tangled pilie of crossed limbs and leaning postures. 

The night was settling in over them, the moonlight and faint flickering light of the television encasing their features in a soft halo. By the time they’d finished an episode of a show they’d watched a million times before, there was only one piece left.  
  
Joly narrowed his eyes at Bossuet, who narrowed them back, forks at the ready, he could tell that he had the same western showdown song in his head that Joly did. Before they could strike, Musichetta took the last piece for herself, giving them both a self satisfied grin at their objections and offended looks. 

"I thought we shared everything." Bossuet whined as Joly nodded in agreement. 

"We do, my loves.” Musichetta said with a devilish smile and a kiss on each forehead. “But I always get the last piece"


End file.
